Just Like Your Father
by dysprositos
Summary: Bruce Banner knows he's just like his father. But what can he do about it? Growing up in the shadow of a monster isn't easy.
1. Breaking Down

**Warnings: child abuse, attempted suicide.**

**Thanks to my awesome beta, irite, for helping me clean up the ending of this.**

**This is part one of two. Or at least what I think is going to be two parts. Also, fair warning, I've been feeling melodramatic lately. So there's that.**

**I do not own The Avengers.**

* * *

"You're just like your father!"

Bruce's grandmother looked aghast the moment the words left her mouth, had thrown her hands over her mouth as if that could stop what had been said, take it back, but it was too late.

It was done.

And even at eleven years old, Bruce Banner understood that it was about the worst thing his grandmother could have said to him.

He also knew that in many cases, those exact same words could be a compliment. Because he'd seen other dads. He saw them at school, picking up his classmates. He saw them at the store. He saw them at the park, playing games with their kids.

They seemed like all right sorts.

But _Bruce_'_s _father...that was a different story. Bruce understood this, logically. Clinically, even, for an eleven year old. What his grandmother had said had _not _been a compliment.

Bruce had been working on his math homework. He was in the fifth grade, but he was taking math with the eighth graders, and they were working on algebra.

Algebra was tricky. You had to do things an exact certain way, and even then if you followed all the rules, sometimes you didn't get the right answer.

Bruce had been working on it for _ages_. He had things he'd rather be doing—he'd picked up a book on famous scientists (he hated reading, but the subject matter made up for it) and he wanted to get a start on that. But this homework was really hard, and really long, and he just wasn't understanding it like he usually did.

So he'd stewed about it for a while, but that hadn't helped. Then he'd gotten up for a snack and come back to it, like the teacher said to do when you were having trouble. But he was still stuck. And then his eraser ripped straight through the page and his pencil broke and—

Bruce stood up, kicking his chair back behind him. Then he grabbed the offending piece of homework and ripped it in half. Then in half again. Then, just for good measure, he picked up his textbook and tried to rip that, too. It was too thick, so instead he heaved it at a wall, snapping the binding. A few loose pages fluttered out to join the debris of his assignment on the floor.

And then his grandmother was standing in the doorway, yelling about the mess he'd made, about how they'd have to pay to replace the book, and didn't he know that they didn't really have the money for it?

And then she'd said it. The terrible words. "That temper, Bruce! You're just like your father!"

That was enough to stop him in his tracks, stomach dropping.

_In his mind, it was __six __years earlier, and he was just starting kindergarten. The teacher had called in his parents for a conference, and she'd used words like 'extraordinary abilities' and 'way ahead of his age group.' __Bruce had been told to wait outside, but they hadn't shut the door all the way and he didn't have anything else to do except listen in._

_Afterwards, both of his parents were tense. They didn't speak in the car. Rebecca—Bruce's mother—had tried. She'd said, "Brian, this doesn't mean that—" but Bruce's dad—Brian—had silenced her with a look, his hands clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles were white._

_This wasn't unusual—things were tense a lot __in Bruce's family__. For some reason, Brian was always angry, and usually it was at Bruce, even if he did his best to be quiet and careful. Even then, he got yelled at a lot. Sometimes, Brian branched out __and __yelled at Rebecca. Every once in a while, when Brian had been drinking, things got really bad and Brian actually hit Bruce, and then Rebecca when she tried to intervene. Bruce didn't know what to do when that happened—he just wanted to get away from it all._

_Soon, he learned how. It was his secret._

_But he hadn't learned that yet._

_Back home, they'd barely made it through the front door before Brian had, completely unexpectedly, grabbed Bruce by the front of his shirt, had thrown him up against a wall__,_ _and was screaming in his face. It was so unexpected, so confusing, so loud, that Bruce couldn't make out most of __his father's diatribe__. He caught words; freak, mutant, monster, but it didn't make sense._

_Brian shook Bruce roughly, and it jarred him all through his body. His head knocked against the wall behind him, and he saw stars, but he still didn't try to move, too overwhelmed by what was happening._

_Rebecca tried to get Brian to stop the barrage, to release Bruce (who was struggling for air at this point, gasping and wheezing) but all she got for her efforts was an elbow to the eye. She crumpled to the ground_ _and didn't get up again__._

_Eventually, Brian did stop, growing exhausted, and he let Bruce fall to the floor. Before either of his parents could react, Bruce had scampered away, upstairs, and had wedged himself underneath his bed._

_He didn't move for four hours._

_While he was hiding, his mother came and tried to coax him out. She told him that Brian was just afraid. Just afraid that he somehow might have hurt Bruce, that he might have done something that would hurt him later in life. That was all. He'd acted out of fear._

_This didn't make sense to Bruce. He didn't understand genetics just yet, __(really, no one did __at that point__)_ _so he wasn't sure what his mother was trying to tell him—that Brian feared his own work in nuclear physics had somehow mutated his son, and Bruce's high intellect was evidence of that. _

_Bruce didn't understand that. But he did understand that his father hadn't seemed afraid. He'd seemed angry. Furious. Hateful. And what he'd done, the words he'd said...had made Bruce feel like something nasty on the bottom of his father's shoe._

_Over the next couple of years, as Bruce only continued to shine in school,_ _being promoted above his grade in science and math,_ _Brian became more erratic. He began drinking heavily, calling in __sick __to work more and more often. Eventually, he lost his job. He fought with Rebecca constantly, the bickering between them more and more often escalating to violence. He spent his days either poring over science journals, muttering about 'mutations', or gazing blankly at the television._

_Bruce tried to avoid him, tried to tiptoe around the house, unnoticed. That's what his mother told him to do, and Bruce _tried_. But he just wasn't good enough, didn't try hard enough, apparently. And whenever Brian noticed him, he went feral. _

_At first it was just a slap as he walked by, or Brian would pinch him, trip him. __If Bruce was paying attention, he could usually dodge those, and Brian was so drunk that he didn't notice that he hadn't connected. But i__t escalated quickly to punches, to kicks and strappings and beatings, all accompanied by an endless barrage of drunken rambling about how Bruce was a 'freak,' and a 'mutie monster.' __And Bruce couldn't get away from those._

_Bruce tried to block it out when it happened. Eventually, he learned to go somewhere inside of himself where nothing could touch him. He pushed all of his emotions aside; his fear, his pain, and just focused on getting through it as best he could. And after a while, he'd made __himself __a shell. Something to keep him safe, something his father couldn't get through. A safe place where he didn't need to watch what was going on around him._

_Rebecca would always try to stop Brian, but Bruce didn't like that. It only made his father angrier, and then he'd start taking it out on her, too. So Bruce started provoking his father, just to keep him focused. After all, Bruce had a safe space, could __protect __himself. He didn't know if his mother could do the same. _

_She couldn't._

_It didn't happen until Bruce was ten years old, and when it did, it was __of course __all his fault. He'd accidentally won the district science fair._ _He hadn't meant to, of course. It was just...science was one of his favorite subjects, and it wasn't his fault that none of the other kids—not even the high schoolers—had come up an idea as good as his. So he'd won, and the local newspaper had run a short article on him, and it had gathered some attention (because ten year old science prodigies are apparently interesting) and then there'd been an article in a major area newspaper._

_Which Brian had read._

_When Bruce got home from school, Brian came at Bruce in a rage, completely incoherent, and Bruce could smell the cheap whiskey on hi__m_ _halfway across the room. He could also see the knife in his hand._

_Bruce acknowledge__d_ _that this was bad. Very bad. And then he checked out, went to his safe place._

_He was gone._

_When he came back to himself, he was standing, stiff and frozen, in one corner of the room. He could hear sirens in the distance, approaching rapidly. On the floor across the room, Brian was wedged into another corner, looking dazedly at the knife in his hand. And Rebecca—_

_Rebecca was sprawled across the floor, blood spreading in a pool around her. _

_She wasn't moving._

_Bruce felt all the blood in his body rush to his head and his knees buckled. He fell to his hands and knees. He wasn't stupid, he knew she was dead. Knew that Brian had killed her. Because he was going to attack him. She'd been protecting him, like she always did, and it had gotten her killed. __And it was his fault._

_Across the room, Brian tried to speak, "Bruce—"_

_Still on his hands and knees, Bruce heaved, vomiting up whatever he'd had for lunch—he couldn't even remember right now. Then he looked up at his father. He demanded, "Why?"_

_Brian smirked__, whatever remorse he'd seemed to be feeling completely gone__. "She had it coming, protecting the little mutant." He staggered to his feet, knife clasped loosely in one hand, taking a step towards Bruce. "But now she's out of the way, I can finish the job." He took another step __towards Bruce's prone form, raising the knife._

_Bruce cringed away__, but the wall was there, and he had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, except inside his head._

"_Drop the weapon!" an authoritative voice ordered from the doorway._

_Brian made no move to do so. Instead, he stepped towards the cops framed in the doorway__, brandishing his knife wildly__. "You don't get it, he's a monster! He's a monster, and he needs to be put down! I can do it—"_

_Two of the cops shot a look between each other before __one of them stepped into the room and approached Brian cautiously. "Sir, I_'_m going to_ _need you to drop the knife."_

_That stopped Brian's ranting, and he looked up, surprised. He looked at the knife, then at the officer. He raised the knife, almost questioningly._

_The officer moved quickly, twisting Brian's arm __(the knife fell)_ _and pushing him to the floor__._

_Brian, drunk and deranged, went down easily, and another cop cuffed him and hauled him up. Dragging him out of the room, Bruce could hear the officer __reciting__, "You have the right to remain silent..."_

_Another one of the cops came into the room and approached Bruce slowly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Son, I'm sorry for what happened here tonight, but we're going to need you to give a statement."_

_Bruce tried. He really did. But he couldn't remember what had happened. It was just gone, like he hadn't even been in the room at all._

_The cops at the police station didn't press him too hard, though—just shot each other a lot of knowing looks—and soon they'd arranged for his grandmother—Brian's mother; Bruce's only living relative— to come pick him up._

The two of them never spoke of what had happened. Brian had gone to trial, of course, and had been declared not guilty by reason of insanity and sentenced to a treatment facility—something Bruce didn't find out until much later—but as far as Bruce and his grandmother were concerned, Brian was dead.

They never mentioned him, a silent, mutual agreement.

Until.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean—" Bruce's grandma was saying when Bruce came back to himself.

Bruce looked around at the scraps of paper on the floor, at the ripped book. All he saw was his anger, his violence, physically manifesting. It wasn't a cut or a bruise on a child's cheek, no, but it wasn't so far off.

That would come. It was inevitable. He _knew_.

His grandma was obviously waiting for some kind of response, so Bruce reassured her, "Don't worry about it, grandma. It's fine." It wasn't. It wasn't fine. She'd hit the nail on the head, had called it exactly right.

"Stupid thing to say," she insisted, stepping over and ruffling his hair. "You're too sweet to be..." she didn't even finish. "Supper's about ready, why don't you wash up?"

"Yes, ma'am," Bruce agreed, his voice hollow.

After that, they never talked about Bruce's father, ever.

Bruce learned to run from his anger like he'd once run from his father, learned to run deep inside of himself where he didn't have to face it, didn't have to look at it, didn't have to see the ghost of his father straining to break free from his small body.

Unfortunately, that didn't make it go away.

It plagued him, always.

* * *

By the time Bruce was sixteen years old, he was a complete social pariah.

It might have had something to do with the fact that he was fathoms more intelligent than any of his classmates. Now in high school, he was taking his math and science classes at the local university, and he excelled in his other classes as well. This was not a recipe for popularity, even if he had been more socially inclined than he was.

It might have had something to do with his thick glasses and unmanageable hair. Or maybe his second-hand clothes. Looking like he did wasn't really going to do a lot to help him make friends.

More likely, though, it had something to do with the well-known fact that his father was a murderous lunatic who'd killed Bruce's mother. And that Bruce himself had some pretty well-documented anger issues. Usually, he'd let bullies walk all over him, wouldn't do anything to defend himself.

Sometimes, though, he'd snap and lash out, attacking with a viciousness that did not seem like him at all. Afterwards, in the principal's office (or nurse's room, on more than one occasion) Bruce would claim that he had no recollection of what had happened.

He really didn't. It worried him, sometimes, that he could lose track of himself like that. That it seemed to be happening more often. That he couldn't seem to control it. Sometimes, he just got so _angry_, and then—nothing.

He didn't want to be angry. He didn't want to be like his father. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't push it far enough away. Instead, no matter how hard he pushed, instead of _going away_, it just became _explosive_ and _unpredictable_. It scared him. Terrified him. And he hated it, hated himself for being such a freak.

After every 'incident,' the adults in charge would exchange concerned looks over his head, but no one ever said anything about these lapses, no matter how adamantly Bruce insisted he was out of control, tried to tell someone what was going on. They all assumed that poor Bruce Banner was fragile after what he had seen his father do, was just always going to be a little 'off.' They wouldn't address it further. But the other kids talked, even if the adults wouldn't, and word soon got around.

Suffice to say, Bruce had no friends. No confidants. No admirers, no dates, no acquaintances. No human contact, save the small measure of affection he got from his grandmother, who worked two jobs just to make ends meet and was often not around after school.

And Bruce survived in this way through the tail end of elementary school, through middle school and into his first few years of high school. Throughout, he was in a fair number of fights—none of which he remembered, all of which he 'won'—and slowly people stopped trying to be his friend, stopped even acknowledging him for the most part.

There were people willing to take advantage of him, though. They'd pretend like they wanted to be friends, but their overtures ended about the time they got their homework assignments turned in.

Bruce knew what they were doing, but he let them. He was so lonely, and he knew that was the only way that anyone was ever going to like him, the poor, nerdy genius freak with the violent outbursts and the psychopath father. It was all he was going to get, so he took it. Did the homework for them, ignored his guilty conscience that said cheating was never going to make things better.

That was about the extent of his social interaction.

Which is why Bruce nearly died of surprise when, one October morning, Sherry Ley asked him to the homecoming dance.

Until that moment, Bruce had been reasonably certain that Sherry didn't know he existed. He'd never seen any evidence to the contrary. She had never, in the two years they'd been in high school together, so much as looked at him. Additionally, Sherry was blonde, and pretty, and rich, three things which indicated to Bruce that she shouldn't be aware of his existence.

Also, Bruce was pretty sure she was dating the captain of the football team.

Thus, it took him almost ten seconds to answer her, and when he did, all he managed was, "Huh?"

She giggled and batted her long eyelashes. "Do you want to come to the dance with me Friday night?"

So he _had _heard her correctly.

Bruce was lonely. He tried to hide it, tried to not feel it, but he was. Desperately. With the exception of his grandmother, he didn't have any close relationships. And even that one wasn't exactly close. The idea of forming a relationship with another person, of filling the huge empty chasm in his chest...it was enough to overrun his better reason. His common sense. Which was currently screaming at him.

He ignored it steadfastly and answered, "Um. Well. Sure, I guess? Um."

He probably would have stuttered on forever, but she stopped him. "Great. Meet me under the bleachers after the football game." She sauntered away.

Friday night, after the football game, Bruce was standing under the home bleachers, peering through the darkness, looking for Sherry and beginning to suspect that he was being stood up.

When he heard a footfall behind him, he turned.

It wasn't Sherry.

No, it was three or four guys from the football team, including the team captain. The one at the front—not the captain, but one of the younger boys—pushed Bruce roughly. "Hey, Banner. Heard you're the asshole who threw off the curve on MacPhearson's Poli-Sci exam. I'm going to be off the team if I can't get my grade in that class up, and you fucked me over."

Bruce had actually managed to get a 103% on the exam. The next highest grade had been an 82. So he answered, abashedly, "Sorry?"

The fist to his mouth caught him by surprise. The one in his gut was less of a surprise. By the time he hit the ground and they were all kicking him, he wasn't surprised at all.

Anger at the injustice of this surged through him. Anger at himself. That girl—Sherry—had used his patheticness to lure him here, and he'd gone because he was stupid and weak. Just absolutely worthless and—

He blacked out.

When he came back to his body, he hurt. His back, chest, ribs. He was fairly sure that his right wrist was broken.

But he was no longer lying in the mud, and he was not alone. On the ground near him were two of the boys who'd attacked him. In the darkness, it was difficult to tell, but Bruce could see that they were breathing, at least. He could also see that they'd both been beaten to a pulp. Both were unconscious and bleeding heavily from facial wounds. Looking down at his fist, Bruce could see it was smeared with blood.

Bruce felt sick. It had happened again. He'd lost control, and this had happened, and he was _just like his father_. Just. Like. His. Father.

How long would it be until he killed someone?

Slowly, fighting nausea, Bruce staggered to the side, leaning for a moment against the bleachers. When he'd caught his breath, he dragged himself home, trying and failing to ignore the voices screaming in his head, familiar words like 'monster' and 'freak.' Repeating endlessly, ad nauseum.

When Bruce got home, his grandmother threw a fit about his condition, and she took him to the hospital. There, the doctors set his wrist for him (he hardly noticed the pain), gave him some pain killers, and sent him on his merry way.

All the while, Bruce worried about those other boys—were they going to be okay? What were they going to tell their parents? What about the two boys who'd run away? What would they say? That Bruce had attacked them all? Would he be arrested? Sent to jail?

Or sent to the same looney bin where they'd stuck his dad.

Suddenly, that didn't seem so horrendous. Because he was clearly nuts. He never remembered doing these things, but clearly he _did_, and if that didn't make him crazy, then he didn't know what did.

Maybe...he belonged in jail. In the looney bin. Or worse. Because if he was like his father then...maybe the world would be better off without him. Maybe he should check out before he screwed up as badly as his own father had. Before he actually did kill someone. It would be for the best, wouldn't it? He'd be doing the world a favor.

He didn't express any of these thoughts to his grandma. It was bad enough that her son was what he was, Bruce didn't think he should burden her with this new truth. With the fact that there was something flawed in their blood. With the fact that he was never going to be anything more than a psychopath, a violent murderer.

Just like his father.

Bruce let his grandmother take him home. He let her put him to bed like she had when he'd been a kid because it seemed to make her feel better to fuss over him. He let her tuck him in and turn off the light. Bruce listened to her putter around the house, listened as she made her own way to bed.

He waited until the house settled down, until he was certain that she was asleep.

Then he sat up in bed, turning on the light on the bedside table. Slowly he stood and walked to his bedroom door, opening it slowly so that the hinges wouldn't creak. He crept down the hall to the bathroom, where he turned the faucet on gently and filled the glass on the sink with water.

He carried it back to his bedroom.

On his dresser, his grandma had set the bottle of pain medicine the doctor in the ER had given him for his wrist. Bruce picked it up and examined the label in the dim lighting. Hydrocodone. Vicodin.

Bruce nodded to himself. It would do.

For a moment, he hesitated. He was afraid. But then he remembered that really, this was what he deserved. After all, he was a monster. A mutant, a freak. Violent and unpredictable. He was just like his father.

No one would miss him. His grandma would be better off without him.

So Bruce unscrewed the top of the bottle and shook the contents out onto the top of his dresser. Then, beginning one by one, ending by downing as many as he could at one time, he swallowed them.

When he was done, he crossed the room to his bed and laid down, closing his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

He dozed, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Some time later—he didn't know how long—he was seized with sudden, vicious nausea. Despite applying all of his willpower, Bruce couldn't help himself. He rolled over to one side of the bed and vomited, gagging and choking on stomach acid and half-dissolved pills.

Exhausted, he flopped onto his back and let his eyes drift closed.

He woke up early, aching, feeling like his insides had been ripped apart. Groaning, he rolled out of bed and did his best to clean up the mess he'd made without waking his grandma.

This wasn't at all what he'd planned. He was still here, still a menace, still dangerous, a land mine just waiting to explode.

Still just like his father.

He went through that Saturday in a daze, trying to get a handle on what he was feeling, trying to think of a solution. But he didn't have any, couldn't think beyond the vise grip of panic in his chest. The obvious answer was to try again, but he didn't have any more pills (how was he going to hide that from his grandma?), and he didn't want to keep _trying _and _failing_. He didn't want his grandmother to know _how much _of a failure he was, didn't want to parade it in front of her, not after what his father had already done to her Didn't he owe her that much, after she'd taken him in?

So instead, Monday morning, Bruce opened the newspaper and started looking for a job. Something so he could contribute. Until he left for college, at least, until he moved out of his grandma's house, until she was no longer responsible for him.

And then he'd rethink things. Take responsibility for himself.

He wouldn't forget.

He couldn't.

He was just like his father, after all. And that was too dangerous to let go.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! **

**Please review; otherwise I will be sad. Very sad. More sad than usual.**


	2. Building Up

**Warnings: reference to past child abuse, suicidal ideation, minor character death, incompetent author attempting to write semi-romantic happenings, angst.**

**Couple of other notes: this is an awkward fusion of comic verse and movie verse, with elements taken from each. Those elements were then inexpertly sewn together into _this_. So, please keep that in mind.**

**My beta, irite, is la cr_è_me de la cr_è_me**** of betas.**

**I do not own The Avengers. Or anything else recognizable.**

* * *

Bruce got into every college he applied to.

Applying wasn't easy. There was a labyrinth of forms to fill out, tests to take, information to gather. Application fees to be paid (he was glad he'd started working—because his grandma certainly didn't have the money to pay for those). Figuring out what needed to be done wasn't easy, and his grandmother wasn't much help. It wasn't that she didn't try. She did. But things had changed since the last time she'd done this.

Still, Bruce managed. And when the acceptance letters (and scholarship offers) started rolling in, he was overwhelmed.

Not surprised, exactly. No. He knew that he was smart. It was just...

The last two years had been hard. Ever since the last fight he'd been in, the one where he'd decided after that the world would be better off without a dangerous freak like him...ever since he'd tried and failed to rid the world of himself, he'd been living in something of a haze. Trying not to think too hard, trying to keep distance from himself, from other people, from everything. Vaguely thinking of the future, but only insomuch as 'how do I get out of it.'

He applied to college because he figured he _should_. Because it was easier than explaining to the teachers and school counselor why he _wasn't_. But actually going, though...that was something else entirely.

But with all of those acceptance letters came opportunity. He'd had a pretty good two years in terms of blackouts—two years free, actually. Bruce still felt sick when he thought of what he'd done, what he _could _do, what he probably _would _do, of course. Some days, he looked in the mirror and it was a struggle not to put his fist through the glass, through his own reflection.

And yet, despite that...he knew his life so far had been pointless. Probably a mistake. But now... there was the possibility, slim as it was, that he could do some _good _in the world. That he could change things for the better, do _something _to mitigate the damage he caused just through existing. Maybe more than mitigate it. Maybe actually make the world a better place, despite the fact that he had existed in it.

So that was how Bruce slowly came to set his gaze a little further forward, justified putting off what he knew had to be done.

He'd try to make up for what he was.

In the end, he settled on Harvard. It was as good a choice as any, got him the hell out of his hometown, so what more could he really ask? They offered him a good scholarship, with grants making up the rest of the tuition costs. It was enough for four years, plus room and board (and a little left over for books and the like), so he took it.

His grandmother seemed sad when he left. Maybe...lonely. But Bruce knew it was for the best that he get away from her. With him around, she could never get past what Brian had done, and that was with her _not _knowing that Bruce was the exact same way, a bomb waiting to explode. Better he leave before she ever _had _to know. Before he did something unforgivable.

He was going to leave, and he wasn't going to come back.

The first couple of years he spent at Harvard were largely uneventful. He did his best to stay away from the other students, didn't bother trying to make friends. In fact, he was so generally unfriendly that, before Christmas break his first year, he'd even managed to scare his roommate into off-campus housing, effectively giving Bruce his own room. That was fine; it wasn't like Bruce was there for the social life anyway. No, he had other goals in mind. He just went quietly to and from his classes, took his tests, and flew through it all with the ease he'd come to associate with school.

During his second year, the 10-year anniversary of his mother's death came and went. Bruce briefly considered going home—to visit her grave—but in the end he decided against it. It'd be better if he never went back there. He should stay away.

So instead of going home, his second summer at Harvard, Bruce got a job in one of the biology labs, to pass the time and get a little extra spending money. He was majoring in physics, but none of those labs needed an undergraduate assistant, and he took what he could get. Cleaning test tubes and running the incubator were things that were well within his capabilities, so it wasn't like he wasn't qualified.

That was where he met Betty.

She was working in the lab next door and was, like him, a junior. Or going to be. Unlike him, she was actually a biology major. Also unlike him, she didn't go out of her way to avoid any and all interactions with other people.

So working in close proximity, it was only a matter of time before they ran into each other.

Their first conversation was held next to a vending machine that had just eaten Bruce's money.

He'd been standing in front of the machine, glaring at the bag of chips dangling tantalizingly from the machine's metal grip, just waiting for a gust of wind to come by and knock it down, when she'd come up behind him.

After a moment of looking between the fuming Bruce and the machine, she said, "You gotta be careful with the chips, the machine likes to hang onto the bag. Sometimes..." she walked up to the side of the machine and bumped it with her hip. The chips fell down. "Ah ha! Yeah, sometimes if you give it a nudge, you can get it to give up the goods."

Bruce was impressed by her acumen in manipulating the vending machine, and so did not immediately register all of the potential problems that might someday arise from this seemingly simple interaction.

He should have.

Instead, he reached down into the slot and pulled out his chips, before standing up and mumbling an awkward, "Uh, thanks."

"No problem. You're Bruce, right? The guy from the physics department. Dr. Hutchinson was talking about you."

Hutchinson was the guy who'd hired Bruce. "Oh? What did he say?"

She shrugged. "Not much. I'm Elizabeth, by the way. But everyone calls me Betty."

Bruce nodded, and after a second, it occurred to him that she was looking at him expectantly. It took him another minute to realize that she wanted him to move so she could use the machine. He stepped to the side. "Sorry."

She chuckled, stepping forward, inserting her money into the machine and making a selection. "Don't worry about it." Then, "I'm a woman studying science, you're not the first awkward boy I've had to deal with." She bent down to grab her candy bar and muttered something that sounded kind of like, "But you're one of the cutest."

Bruce started to reply, but she straightened and said, "I have to get back to work." As she was walking away, though, she called over her shoulder, "We should hang out sometime!"

That was something that Bruce knew wasn't going to happen. And the next couple of weeks confirmed it. They passed each other in the hall sometimes, but Bruce didn't stop to chat. That wasn't really who he was. Even if she was nice, and had rescued his chips for him, he had a goal. Several goals, in fact. None of which really left room for relationships. Or even just friendships.

Not considering what his end game plans were. Even if he _had_ pushed his schedule back, his life had a pretty concrete endpoint somewhere in the not-too-distant future.

However, about a month after their initial meeting, Betty cornered him in front of the vending machine again. "Hey, Bruce."

"...Hi," he answered cautiously, trying to get out of her way, remembering how painfully awkward he'd been last time.

She apparently didn't want him out of her way, though, because she moved with him. "What're you doing tomorrow night?"

Tomorrow was a Friday, and like all Fridays, Bruce had no plans beyond heading back to his dorm and reading his textbooks until it was late enough that he could go to sleep without feeling ridiculous. So it was honest when answered, "Nothing."

"Ah. Well, how about we fix that?"

He was too surprised to object.

And that was how it began.

She came by his dorm around 7:00 PM, and the two of them walked to a nearby restaurant that catered to Harvard's collegiate population. Over their extremely nutritious meal of french fries and Coke, they talked.

At first, about nothing important. Bruce was awkward, but Betty was determined, and she steered them through a variety of non-offensive, non-threatening conversation topics. As it turned out, the two of them had a lot in common, and Betty seemed to find Bruce's awkwardness and self-deprecating humor charming. Go figure.

Bruce found himself relaxing some of the rigid walls he'd thrown up around himself.

Later, though, as they were walking back to campus, Betty asked, "Are you going home at the end of the term?" There was a three-week break in August before classes started in September.

Bruce hadn't thought about it, but that didn't mean he couldn't answer right away. "No."

"Don't you miss your parents?"

He couldn't help the way his shoulders stiffened, and she was perceptive enough to notice it. "Oh, I'm sorry if—"

"It's okay," Bruce insisted, because he didn't _want _to be a freak about this, as much as he was a freak about everything else in his stupid, messed up life. "It's just...my parents are dead."

It was easier to say that than it was to explain the situation accurately.

"I'm sorry," Betty repeated, obviously kicking herself. But then, because curiosity won out, "How long...when..."

For a moment, Bruce relished the feeling of being somewhere that not every single person knew his tragic story. He really could be whoever he wanted to be. And right now, it was time to be someone who wasn't a freak. "I was ten," he answered. Quickly, because he knew the next question in this sequence, he added, "It was an accident."

He managed to say it without choking on the lie, and was probably more proud of himself for it than he should have been.

Conversation drifted back into safer waters, and when Bruce dropped Betty off at her dorm, she asked him, "Do you want to do this again?"

Bruce considered. He'd had a good time, and it had felt good to actually relax around another person, even if it had been a small amount. Plus, getting out of his room for once had been different. In a good way.

Still, he hesitated. Because he knew what he was, and Betty seemed like a nice girl. He couldn't become to her what his father had been to his mother—

Betty interrupted his angsting. "Look, it's no big deal if you don't, I just thought—"

"Yeah," Bruce interrupted _her_ suddenly, impulsively. "I do want to do this again. What are you doing tomorrow?"

Because she was right. It wasn't a big deal. They'd been on _one _date. And sure, it was his first date, but it was just _one _date. Probably nothing would come from this. How many people stayed with the person they went on their first date with forever, really? No one.

This would be fine. Maybe even fun. If he was careful, and cautious, and made sure to back out before she could get hurt.

"Um, well, I don't really have any plans."

_This_, Bruce thought to himself in the subsequent awkward silence, _Is where you suggest something, stupid_.

But he had no idea what normal 20-year-olds did. His life consisted entirely of work and studying. It took a moment, but Betty picked up on his cluelessness. "There's a bowling alley a couple of blocks from here...?"

And that was their second date.

By the start of August, when the term ended, they'd been on five more dates. They'd held hands once or twice, and he'd gotten one small kiss on the cheek, but that was all. So when Betty left to go visit her parents, Bruce figured that would be the end of it. After all, it was going to be three weeks until they saw each other again. Betty was pretty, and smart, and funny. Surely she'd find someone new in those three weeks. And if not then, certainly during the new semester.

Except...she didn't. No, she was apparently set on Bruce.

They ran into each other at work the first week of classes, and things were a little awkward between them after their time apart. They exchanged pleasantries, and then Betty asked Bruce if he wanted to study later.

Bruce didn't know what to say. He had not prepared for this possibility, that she'd still want to, well, do whatever it was they'd been doing. So, without any other ideas, he said 'yes.'

One study date turned into two, which turned into a couple of dates a week, which turned into a regular thing. And then they were getting coffee, and dinner, and seeing movies, and staying over in each others' rooms (Betty was an RA and thus had a single, Bruce's roommate had a girlfriend who lived off campus and was almost never there). They were holding hands, and cuddling, and kissing and—

Well. Doing far, far more than Bruce, the once social pariah of his hometown, ever expected to do with a woman.

By May, they were inseparable.

And this was something that Bruce had never expected. Now twenty-one years old, it had been five years since he vowed that he was done, that he would do the right thing and dispose of himself before he snapped like his father.

Five years, and he hadn't done it yet. Five years and, for the first time since he was sixteen years old...he didn't really want to.

He was five years free of the blackouts, after all.

He may have even been...happy. Normal.

But Bruce wasn't stupid enough to think that this could go on forever. He couldn't endanger Betty like that. He'd told himself he'd end this before Betty could get hurt, and now it was past time to keep his promise.

Bruce knew he'd have to end it.

That hurt, because Betty didn't deserve _that_, either, but it was so much better than the alternative. She would get over him, it wasn't like he was anything special.

So, at the end of the spring semester, Bruce approached the problem with the distance and calmness he'd embraced for so long, that he should have known to keep embracing all along.

Over dinner, Bruce began, hesitant, "Betty..."

She looked up at him from her Coke, narrowing her eyes at his tone. "Yeah?"

"I, uh..." This was the only relationship he'd ever forged in his life, and he had to end it, but he didn't know _how_. So he opted for honesty. At least, as much as he could. "Betty. What's going on between us...it isn't going to work out. I'm not any good for you."

The look Betty gave him was incredulous, and Bruce supposed he deserved it. He'd been acting like everything was fine, like whatever was going on between them had a hope of surviving. That had been wrong of him. He'd been stupid (and happy) but it was too late to do anything about it now. He barreled on, "I know I haven't, uh, well. Look. You're amazing. You are. It's not you, it's—"

"If you say 'it's not you, it's me,' I might hit you," she stated evenly.

Well, that was exactly what he had been about to say. But her hitting him would not work out well for either of them, so Bruce recovered quickly. "Betty. I'm not good for you, I'm not good enough _for _you."

"That's crap," Betty interjected. "You're a straight-A student, you're responsible, you're adorable. What more could a girl want?"

_Someone who's not a psycho. Someone you can bring home to your parents._

Bruce didn't know much about Betty's family, but he knew enough. Her father was a general, for God's sake. He had no business mingling with _normal_, upstanding people like that.

But he couldn't say that, because that would entail admitting exactly how disgusting, how freakish he was. He'd have to admit how much danger he'd been putting her in, and then she'd hate him.

More than she did already.

And for some reason...he didn't want that. Even now. Even if it might be easier.

"Well?" Betty demanded, getting angry.

Bruce didn't blame her, but all he could do was repeat, "It's...I'm not good for you, Betty."

She sighed, rubbing a small circle on her forehead. "That's it, isn't it? That's all you're going to say."

It was. Bruce nodded.

Betty stood up roughly, pushing her chair in. "Fine." Then, she softened, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I don't get you, Bruce."

That, Bruce felt, was for the best. Even if the tears in her eyes punched him straight in the gut.

He watched Betty leave, ignoring the pang in his chest at her departure, and followed a few minutes later after paying their bill.

* * *

The period from May to June was in the running for the worst month of Bruce's life. He had a couple of different options to choose from, though, so he wasn't going to unequivocally state that it _was_.

The fact was that he'd gotten so used to _not_ being completely alone that returning to that state threw him. Bruce knew he shouldn't let it, that this was his natural state and he should just accept it but still. It was hard.

He worked through his funk as best he could. He kept working in the same biology lab, and whenever he saw Betty in the hall, he looked down at his shoes until they'd passed each other. It was awkward, and he felt like an asshole every time he did it.

But he wouldn't let himself give in and talk to her, and she didn't approach him.

With his eyes focused on the ground every time they passed each other, Bruce never saw the sad looks she was aiming at his stiff, shuffling form.

At the end of June, after they'd been 'broken up' for a little over five weeks, Bruce got a letter.

This was unprecedented. The only mail Bruce got was from the registrar's office. So he almost died of surprise when he received real mail.

The letter was from his grandmother. She apologized right off for writing, said she knew he wanted his distance, his space. But there was something that she thought he should know.

His father had just been released from his treatment facility.

Bruce read that line three times before it clicked and his stomach dropped.

For the last eleven years, he'd been acting like his father was dead. That was his _reality_, how he got through the days. But now...now that was gone. And there was a new reality. He would have to adjust to this, have to adapt.

That wasn't the end of the letter, though. It went on for a few more lines. Bruce squinted at it, the writing blurry, even with his glasses on. His grandmother said she missed him, that Brian's release had her worried (about what, she didn't say), and she thought it might be nice to see Bruce, if only for a couple of days.

She apologized again, then, saying she knew it was an inconvenience, she knew he was busy, she knew he didn't want anything to do with her, but she thought that it might be good. Then she offered to pay for a bus ticket (that Bruce knew she couldn't really afford, not without him around to help pay the bills; he was pretty sure she had retired once he left), and reading her letter, Bruce felt like an asshole. He hadn't meant to alienate the only family he had left. It was just...easier that way. Making a clean break and all.

Bruce sighed, wondering if there would ever come a point when he _didn't _screw everything up.

But...this was an opportunity to do better. And fixing the consequences of his own existence was always a priority. Bruce figured he could do this one thing. Put his grandmother at ease.

So he wrote back quickly, saying he'd come, setting up a date.

A few days later, he was on a bus.

The trip home was long and uncomfortable. All the while, Bruce wondered what it would be like, seeing his grandmother for the first time in almost three years. They hadn't even written to each other. Bruce had been content to cut off all contact with his past, since he didn't anticipate having a future, and so now he was faced with the awkward prospect of rebuilding a bridge he hadn't burned so much as let it fall into disrepair.

His grandma was waiting for him at the bus station.

She took him home, and his room hadn't changed at all in the time since he'd been gone. Being in there was hard. It brought back all kinds of awful memories from high school, from before. Lying in his old bed, that night, he did not sleep. Could not.

He spent that morning helping around the house, taking care of some things that badly needed to be done that his grandma couldn't do on her own. Conversation between them was stilted and awkward, but it was clear that she was trying. Trying to do what, Bruce wasn't sure, but he could appreciate the effort.

After all, he was the only family she had left, too.

More or less.

Still, the uncomfortableness between them made him miss the easy relationship he'd had with Betty.

Which was a surprise. Not that he missed Betty (because that was something he'd been grappling with for a month) but that here, now, he was thinking of her.

And rather than think about her in this place where his bad memories were threatening to overrun him, Bruce decided to take a nap that afternoon. He'd slept poorly the night before, so it made sense.

It wasn't like he was trying to escape his own thoughts or something.

He woke up in time for dinner, and then he and his grandma had a somewhat-less-awkward meal than breakfast had been, followed by a couple of hours in front of the television. In a way, the familiarity was nice, although there was no feeling of 'home.'

Mostly, Bruce felt haunted.

That night, like the previous one, he could not sleep.

At 4:00 AM, he gave up trying. And decided to do something he had not done in years.

Bruce did not visit his mother's grave. Even when it had only been a short walk from his house, he didn't go. He hadn't seen a point to it. It didn't bring him comfort, and it wasn't going to bring her back.

But here, now, revisiting his past like he was, it seemed natural. Seemed like something that he _should _do. Something that might relieve this awful feeling of skeletons rattling in his closet.

He stopped in the garden to grab a handful of flowers before making his way out of the yard and up the hill towards the cemetery.

Bruce knew where his mother's grave was, of course. He _had _been there. But finding it in the pre-dawn light was a little difficult. When he got there, he was sad to see how forlorn and empty it looked. She'd been dead for more than ten years, now, and the gravestone was weathered, but still easy to read. Bruce placed the flowers he'd brought on the ground, centering them neatly in front of the stone.

Then, leaning down, Bruce traced his mother's name with one finger, wondering vaguely of what she'd think of him if she could see him now. Mostly, he was ashamed of himself, and figured she would be, too. He was _just _like the man who'd murdered her, after all. Violent, and insane. He'd abandoned his grandmother, had been cruel to Betty. Maybe he had a handle on his madness, maybe he'd learned to control it, but would he ever be anything but a monster?

He didn't think so. Now he was just a different kind.

So deep was in his rumination that he utterly failed to notice that he was no longer alone.

"I knew you'd come back here, freak," came a voice from behind him, a voice straight out of Bruce's nightmares, a voice that he had hoped beyond hope that he would never hear again. "Knew I'd just have to wait for you."

Slowly, Bruce straightened and turned around.

The last eleven years had not been kind to Brian. He was thin—gaunt, almost—and so much smaller than Bruce remembered him.

Or maybe Bruce was just taller.

Either way, the expression on Brian's face was twisted and angry, and as Bruce watched, he took a step forward.

"Freak," he repeated, spitting the word. "It's your fault she died. You killed her. With your _freakishness_." Another step forward. "And they locked _me _up for it."

Bruce wondered, briefly, about the standards for release at the institution where his father had been held. Because waiting in a graveyard to confront your son—who may or may not come by—seemed like some pretty unstable behavior. But then...maybe it was budget cuts.

That always explained so much.

While Bruce had been distracted, Brian had moved so that he was now within arm's reach of Bruce. That was enough to spur Bruce back into action. He stepped backwards in a reflexive reaction to his father's closeness, crushing the flowers he'd just placed, until the backs of his knees were pressed against his mother's gravestone.

"I'm going to finish this once and for all," Brian informed Bruce—cold, clinical, like this made perfect sense—moving in even closer, reaching a hand out for Bruce's throat.

_Maybe_, Bruce thought, frozen somewhere between panic and resignation, _This is for the best. _Wouldn't it be? Wasn't this what needed to happen? Wasn't this _right_? It seemed like it. A full-circle sort of thing. This would finally be over. Done. Like it should have been over a decade ago. He shut his eyes, waiting.

But then, just as Brian's fingertips closed around his windpipe, Bruce thought, of all things, about Betty.

She just kept surprising him.

He thought about how happy he'd been with her, how he'd started to put this place behind him. How he'd started to think that he had a chance at a normal life, that he could be something more than simply Brian Banner's screwed up son. How he was _fixing _things, how he was going to make the world a better place, how if he just a chance he might be able to do it, too.

He could be more than this.

And then...he was angry. At Brian, for what he'd done all those years ago, for being the spectre that haunted Bruce's every waking moment, even now. At himself, for letting himself be terrorized, for all those years of his life he'd let his father take from him.

It was bullshit. It wasn't right, and damn it, he was _done._

As Bruce's airway was crushed shut, rage coursed through him, hot and molten, and he had enough time to think _So much for five years free of blackouts_ before, well.

He was gone.

* * *

Bruce woke up in a hospital bed with a bandage wrapped around his head and a dull ache emanating from the front of his skull, along with a sharp pain coming from his throat.

He'd barely been conscious for five minutes before a nurse came bustling in. She checked him over briefly and then summoned a doctor who explained what had happened.

As much as he could, anyway.

"You have a concussion, son." He looked down at Bruce gravely. "Do you remember what happened?"

Bruce did, to a point. But after that? No. It was gone, like in all of his other blackouts.

He kept that to himself, but told the doctor, "No, sir. I don't."

"That's to be expected with an injury like this." He paused, looking over his glasses. "You were attacked."

Bruce knew that. But he just nodded slowly. The doctor went on, "Your attacker...Mr. Banner, it was your father."

Bruce knew that, too.

"I don't know the specifics, but judging from your injuries, you were strangled and possibly fell and hit your head." He paused, then slowly added, "It seems like the two of you had a struggle. Your father suffered a traumatic brain injury, also possibly from a fall. Mr. Banner...he didn't make it."

Bruce froze. It took the words a moment to hit him, but then clarity plowed into him like a freight train. He'd—he'd—

Done exactly what he'd always known he was going to do. He'd snapped and killed someone. Just like his father. He was just like his damn father, and—

He didn't realize he was panicking until he felt an arm on his shoulder. "Son, just breathe. It's all right. The police have a few questions for you, and we need to get this cleared up, but it's going to be all right."

Bruce did not believe him.

Still, he managed to catch his breath, to slow his heart rate. Years of practice putting distance between himself and everything else now came in handy. After a moment, he was able to choke out, "Are they here now?"

"Yes, Mr. Banner. Are you ready for them?"

Bruce managed a tight nod, and the doctor excused himself from the room. A moment later, a pair of police officers came in.

It was clear from the beginning that they did not blame Bruce for what had happened, sympathetically asking about his injuries and apologizing for disturbing his recovery. Bruce thought they _should _blame him. But Brian had a history of instability, of violence against his family. The finger-shaped bruises on Bruce's neck certainly cast the blame on Brian as well. In fact, after only half an hour of questioning, the lead officer said, "Thanks for your time, Mr. Banner, and I'm sorry that this happened. Brian Banner's death will likely be ruled accidental. We'll know by the end of business today."

Bruce mumbled a quiet, "Thanks," before they, too, left.

But he was not yet free to be alone with his thoughts.

His grandmother came in next. She looked at him from the doorway for a good ten seconds before crossing the room and taking his hand. Quietly, she said, "I'm sorry, Bruce."

Considering he'd just killed her only child, Bruce couldn't figure out why she was apologizing to _him_. "Don't," he rasped, his throat making conversation difficult. "Don't apologize." He didn't know if he could take it.

"No," she quieted him, tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry. All of this...none of it's your fault. I don't think you ever understood that."

"What? No—" Of course it was his fault. He was dangerous, like his father. He was a killer. He had blood on his hands, and _that_ was his fault. His father was dead because of him.

But his grandma didn't let him voice that, just spoke over his attempts at protest. "It's over, now. It's over, and you should go back to that school of yours and forget any of it happened. Forget it. I was wrong to ask you to come back here."

Bruce interrupted her, "No, you just wanted to see me—"

"I was being selfish, looking for comfort from you. That's not your job." She sighed. "I should have been taking care of you, not the other way around." She sat down on the edge of his bed. "They're going to let you out of here in the morning. I want you on a bus back to school as soon as you can go. No questions asked, young man. You need to go, and you need to put this behind you."

And what could he do but accept that? "Yes, ma'am."

Maybe...maybe she really did forgive him. And maybe he _could _put this behind him.

* * *

Brian's death _was _ruled accidental by the end of the day, and Bruce was released from the hospital the following morning. True to his word, he was on a bus back to Harvard by dinnertime the next day. His goodbye with his grandmother had been a largely silent affair, with the two of them having very little to say that hadn't already been said, one way or another. Still, they hugged, and Bruce promised to come visit again over Christmas break. He didn't want to let his past hold him back anymore, wasn't going to let his whole life be haunted by a man who was now nothing more than a memory.

Bruce knew that things weren't going to be all roses and daisies now that his father was dead. Dead by Bruce's own hands. At least, Bruce assumed that was what happened, and with no evidence to the contrary, that was what he was going to believe. No. Bruce still knew he was not normal. Was dangerous. Could easily hurt other people.

But he also knew that he had managed five years without any incidents, could very well have gone on longer if his father hadn't tried to kill him. He'd never know for sure how long it could have been, but he could start over again.

And he would.

'None of this is your fault,' his grandmother had said, and it seemed too easy to accept, but it was the first time in his life he'd heard the words. The first time anyone had ever explicitly stated it.

The first time in his life he'd felt forgiven. Forgiven for what he'd done. For...existing.

It gave him strength, shored up his defenses, left him more clear-headed than he'd been in years. Maybe ever. Now, he saw that maybe he could be more than his father had been. He could do better. He was going to leave his mark on this world, and it wasn't just going to be random violence, death and destruction. He was going to make it a better place, make up for all the stuff that he'd done, that his father had done. He was finished being afraid.

When he got back to Harvard, the first thing he did (after dropping his bag off) was check in with his boss. The guy wasn't in his office, though, so Bruce was heading back out of the building (to go get some rest and maybe hit up the pain pills the doctor had given him) when he saw Betty, posed in front of the vending machine with her hands on her hips, looking disgruntled.

Seeing her caused a pang in his chest, because he remembered what he'd been thinking, right before his last episode. Betty. How he'd been happy with her, how he could see himself having a life with her, how it was the only good thing he had going for him.

It really was. It was the only good thing he'd done in his life and damn it, he wasn't going to let it go.

Bruce immediately walked over, coming up behind Betty. He could see that the machine was holding on to a bag of chips, that it was dangling precariously, just waiting for an iota of momentum to knock it down.

So Bruce walked up to the side of the machine and bumped it with his hip.

The chips fell.

And Betty was looking at him, her expression a mix of confusion, anger, and incredulity. And then...concern.

"Bruce...your head. And...neck," she said, pointing at the bruises that still discolored his skin. "What happened?"

Awkwardly, Bruce shifted his weight between his feet. "I, uh." He didn't really want to talk about that, not in front of this vending machine that held such fond memories. He tried something else. "Look. I'm sorry. About how I acted before, when I—"

"When you dumped me. For no reason." Blunt and to the point, like he'd come to expect.

God he'd missed her.

"Yeah." He could feel himself blushing, faltering, so he blurted out, "Do you want to study sometime?"

Betty slowly shook her head. "No." Then, she stepped in, taking Bruce's hand in hers. "Well, yeah. But I think we need to talk. You can't just leave and..." she gestured vaguely at his injuries, then between the two of them. "We really need to talk."

Bruce agreed. "You're right."

And he knew he was going to have to tell her some things. Maybe even tell her everything, as terrifying as that was. She needed to know what she was getting into, and Bruce knew he had to give her a chance to back out, to leave him, if that's what she thought she needed to do. It was only fair. Informed consent. He couldn't ask more of her than she was willing to give.

Bruce took Betty back to his room (because he needed those pain meds pretty desperately by now), and when they were both sitting on his bed, he began slowly, "I went to visit my grandmother a couple of days ago."

Betty listened wordlessly as Bruce told his story from beginning to end. He did his best to be thorough, although he left out some of the gorier details. Exactly what his father had done to him. Exactly what he had done to his father, in the end. Things she didn't need to know. Things Bruce wished _he _didn't know.

When he was done, he fully expected her to get up and leave, to turn her back on him and walk out.

She didn't. All she said was, "Your grandma's right, Bruce. None of it was your fault. And you're not like your father."

"Betty, I—"

"No." And then she kissed him. When she pulled back, she said, "The memory lapses...there's things you can try. Meditation. Hypnosis. I'll help you, Bruce."

Bruce was reluctant to accept. It was dangerous. _He _was dangerous. Like his father. Just like his father.

But maybe...someday...if he kept trying, working...he wouldn't be.

He'd just have to keep trying.

And Betty wanted to help. Actually wanted to stay with him, despite knowing how fucked up everything was. Maybe this thing they had could help him survive. It had already saved him once, had shaken him from a stupor in which he had been literally waiting for death. Maybe he needed this, as new and frightening as it was. Maybe he could even be happy.

Slowly, hesitantly, Bruce leaned in for another kiss.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'm pretty sure that's the end of this little sojourn into Bruce's past, as much as it is to write.**

**Reviews make me happy. So does cake. If you don't review, you have to mail me a cake. New rule.**


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